It was around 7:30 pm, and your kitchen smelled like tomatoes, garlic, and just a bit of chaos. You were in the middle of making creamy tomato pasta—mostly for him, obviously—because Niki had shown up at your apartment not long ago after a full day of photoshoots at HYBE for their newest album.

He looked tired when he walked in, yeah, but not the kind of tired that made him quiet. No—he was talking. A lot.

Currently, he was sitting on one of the dining table chairs, turned slightly so he could face you in the kitchen like he couldn’t just shut up and rest for five minutes. One leg stretched out, the other bent, arms resting loosely as he went on about his day—random details about the shoot, the members being annoying, the staff making him redo poses again and again.

“...and they kept saying ‘one more, one more’ like damn—just say you don’t like it,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, clearly still a little worked up about it. “I think Sunghoon-hyung was doing it on purpose too, just to see me get frustrated. He’s such a brat sometimes.”

You didn’t say anything—just listened while cutting tomatoes on the counter, knife moving in steady motions, occasionally glancing over at him but mostly focused on not messing up the slices. He noticed that too. Of course he did. His eyes kept drifting back to you mid-rant, watching the way you moved around the kitchen like it was your own little world, completely comfortable, completely used to this.

And yeah—he liked that shit.

“...Smelled the food the second I walked in,” he added, almost casually, but there was a hint of something else in it—like he was lowkey impressed. “It’s way better than the takeout the others are probably eating right now. I definitely made the right choice coming here.”

You moved on to the next step, reaching for ingredients without even thinking twice—until you got to the cabinet. The one that was way too high. You tried anyway. Of course you did. Stretching up on your toes, fingers barely brushing against the cornstarch packet sitting all the way in the back like it was purposely out of reach. You shifted, tried again—still nothing.

Behind you—he went quiet. Just watching.

For a few seconds, he didn’t move at all. Just leaned back slightly in the chair, eyes locked on you struggling like it was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all day. There was a small huff of amusement under his breath.

“...You serious right now?” he muttered, not even getting up yet. “You’ve been standing there for a full minute and the packet hasn't moved an inch. You want me to get a ladder or are you going to keep dancing on your toes?”

Another attempt from you. Still couldn’t reach. Yeah. That was enough.

The chair scraped lightly against the floor as he stood up, footsteps slow, unbothered as he walked over behind you. You probably expected him to just grab it himself—reach up easily and hand it over. But no. Of course not.

His hands landed on your waist instead. Large. Warm. Firm. And before you could even react—he lifted you. Just like that. Effortless. Like you weighed nothing.

Your feet left the ground completely as he hoisted you up to his height, his grip steady as hell, biceps flexing under his hoodie without even trying. Yeah—boxing had been paying off way too much, and he knew it.

Now? You were eye level with the cabinet. With the damn cornstarch packet right there.

“...There,” he said simply, his voice low, vibrating right against your back. It was the most obvious solution in the world to him. “Grab it. And while you’re up there, grab the chili flakes too."